


Like Waking Up

by littleredwolf



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, HAPPY ENDINGS OKAY, Spoilers, does anyone really search by tags or is it just by relationship lbr, god i don't know, probably, this is basically a headcanon for my playthrough so I stop hating myself and everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleredwolf/pseuds/littleredwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair finds that death is a little bit like waking up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Welcomes Death

**Author's Note:**

> pls be gentle with me I haven't written anything in like five years but Dragon Age:I is slowly stealing my soul. (also I'm writing this to distract myself from Cullen Fucking Rutherford and the extreme depression that I have now that I've finished this game)
> 
> This whole story is based on the Warden dying defeating the Archdemon, Alistair staying a Grey Warden, and everyone being very bitter and sad about life (mostly Alistair).
> 
> I also have no beta reader so. Just. *apologizes everywhere and falls down a flight of stairs*
> 
> ~*~spoilers abound~*~

The Inquisitor reminded Alistair of _her_ , if only a little. Sometimes more than others in the short while they had spent together. The same fire-red hair and the same passion to do good, the willingness to shoulder a fight that didn’t truly belong to her. But with those similarities came their weaknesses. He could see it in her eyes, bitter and sure as she looked between him and Hawke in this halfway place between the living and the dead, the waking and the sleeping. Where they shouldn’t have rightfully been in the first place (but when were they ever in the right place at the right time?). She was friends with Hawke, he knew that. Even better friends with Varric. And he knew that women like Eliza Trevelyan and Alana Amell didn’t let go of their friends, not even if the cost was another man’s life.

Not even for their own lives.

So he knew what Eliza was going to say before she said it. And it was a relief, almost. An excuse to lay down his banner, to go out with a fight. He was so tired. Ten years was a long time.

He doesn’t remember what he said to her as he turned away to the creature behind him, unbidden images of the Archdemon flashing through his head, Alana laying on the ground, her hazel eyes empty and unseeing. He looked up to see Eliza’s face twist in pain as she stared back at him, but Hawke tugged her through the Rift, yelling something he couldn’t quite hear with the rushing of blood in his ears. The Inquisitor straightened her back and nodded at him once before turning on her heel. He saw the differences then, between Eliza and Alana, and it wasn’t just the stark contrast between their appearances. Eliza with her tan freckles and sharp features, tall and hard and angry in the most sardonic way, was so different from Alana that it hurt his chest. Where Eliza was twisted smiles and biting remarks, Alana was soft and gentle and sweet. But they were the same in all the important ways.

Heroes were not made of swords or muscle or sinew, he had learned throughout the years. They are thrown into the flames before they are ready and emerge with the power to make decisions no one else was willing to (but oh how they questioned their choices, how it tore them up inside. He also knew too well of tears and worry and regret.). Heroes, he had learned, were forged from magic and laughter and sacrifice. He was almost sure that Eliza would have died in his place had they given her the option. But, no, the Inquisitor had to live. And he had given the Grey Wardens all he could.

He pulled in a deep breath as he turned to face the beast. It towered over him, terrifying in every aspect, but he barely saw it, rushing forward with his sword. Instead he focused his mind on Alana’s round face and pale skin and the small secret smile she had only given to him. He missed her with an ache in his chest and a hard lump in his throat that had never truly gone away, even after all this time. Everyone had told him that time could heal all wounds. They were wrong. Time did not heal wounds; it only lessened the pain until it became a dull throb in the back of his head, constantly nudging him forward the past ten years, whispering _go, go, go, you daft boy, don’t let her have died in vain_. He hated the voice, hated the need to keep moving. How was death anything but vain?

He wasn’t sure how long he fought the creature, only that he knew that the Inquisitor and Hawke were no longer behind him. There was no reason to keep fighting. His steps faltered and he slowed, not willing to give up completely, but the strength was fading from him. He limped and took note of all his injuries - broken ribs, bloodied hands, tender heart. The creature reared, sending him stumbling.

Finally, oh Maker, finally, he dropped to his knees and he knew this was the end. Knew it so intimately that he could call it by name without flinching. Death. His Death. It was coming in the way the night inevitably rises from the dusk, skimming over the land until all is coated in the cool blue of the moon. His eyes clouded over, tendrils of darkness creeping over his mind. Soft caresses moved over his body, whispers in the void. He was surprised. He had long since stopped believing in gods and dreams. Demons and darkspawn were the only myths of legend that had shown him any attention. But surely that voice, surely those feather-light touches, could not be those of a demon?

He found he worried less as his eyesight became darker. The surprise left and turned into a slow acceptance as he realized the whispering voice was gone and so were the touches. They had simply been the last wishful hopes of a dying man who had lived far past when he had wanted to. There was only the Fade and the darkness to welcome him to death. There was no more running, no more fighting. There was no Maker. He let out a final sigh, imagining Alana’s hands in his hair and on his face, and he finally felt a hint of peace.

And then he was gone, his mortal body splayed across the ground, the creature above him uninterested and leaving now that his corpse was still. A twisted smile was on his cold lips and his arms were spread wide, welcoming the death that he had so desperately craved for so long. He had been grateful for death, grateful for the cold to wash over him and finally take him away.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a Maker watching over him.


	2. She Brings the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point this is just a practice piece for a way larger piece I'm writing so I can get back into the swing of things. I'm not super thrilled with the way it turned out but. Well.
> 
> womp womp

To say he was confused when he woke up is like saying the sun is a little warm to the touch. A massive understatement to the highest degree. He was in a room not unlike one that he’d stayed in at the Landsmeet, with its high ceilings and fine draperies and the absurd attention to detail that only the wealthy really care about. With the Wardens he’d had little chance for finery. He wondered, for the briefest of moments, whether he would have still met the same fate had he been king, but his pushed the thought from his mind almost before it entered.

The duvet he shoved off himself was plush and absurd, made of the softest down and laced with golden embroideries. There were embers glowing in the dying fireplace and morning sun outside his window, streaming in and creating patterns on the wooden floor. If this was a trick of the Fade, it was not a bad one.

“Alistair,” a gruff voice intoned from the doorway and he was sure that this couldn’t be real as the figure lumbered through the door.

“Duncan.” He was surprised when his voice didn’t crack.

The older man moved toward him and grabbed his shoulders. “You’re here a few years too soon.” A wide grin played across his face, his tone teasing.

“I’m very punctual.”

Duncan laughed and clapped him on the back. “I’m sure you have questions. I’ll explain as best I can, but I don’t have all the answers.”

Alistair ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know where to start. Is this - is this real?”

“As real as death can be. If you’re asking whether it’s all in your head, or whether all the people here are really honest-to-Maker _here_ …” He shrugged. “We have no way to prove it to you. You’ll just have to come to terms on your own.”

He swallowed hard. “So what is it? Who’s here? Just...dead people roaming around, being creepy for all eternity?”

Duncan eyed him seriously, seeing through his words easily. Because he knew him too well or because he was just in Alistair’s head, he didn’t know. “If you’re asking whether we’ve seen the Maker Himself,” he said slowly, looking past Alistair’s head and out the window behind him, “I can’t say we have. I can’t imagine where else this came from though. The land seems to go on forever. We’ve mapped out what we can and scouted as far as we are able, but it’s neverending.”

Alistair snorted. “Of course you’ve mapped out _the afterlife.”_

Duncan’s small smile became slightly sadder. “I’ve got a lot of people looking for things to do. There are a lot of Wardens here.” He shook his head. “We’ve got a few people, the ones we trust the most, keeping an eye on Thedas. It’s not pretty down there.”

“Keeping an eye? How?”

“Magic, of a sort. Mages understand the Fade better than most and can travel through with some preparation. Not often, but often enough. No one can see them and they have the ability to travel surprising distances. It wears them out though, so we try to simply let Thedas be for the most part.”

Alistair glanced out the window at the plains that surrounded them for miles, mountains growing tall in the distance. It certainly looked real. “So, what do you do here? You just explore?”

“Among other things. There are countless cities across the land. From what we can tell, they’re split up chronologically. Those that died thousands of years ago are the farthest away. Reachable, but it’s an extremely long journey.”

“It-” He hesitated, trying to find the best way to say what he was thinking, but ended up just settling on, “It sounds depressing.”

Duncan shook his head. “Death is only depressing for those still living. You’ll get out of that mindset eventually.”

Alistair shook his head, attempting to wrap his brain around it. “Still not quite sure I understand it all.”

Duncan barked out another laugh. “You and everyone else. It gets easier eventually. Time doesn’t feel the exact same as it does down there. We’re aware that we’ve been here years, but...it feels like it’s been only a second sometimes. Come, there are people who want to see you, I’m sure.”

Alistair’s heart skipped a beat (if it even could - he was dead, wasn’t he?), but he didn’t dare ask. Crushing his own hopes was a habit that he’d formed quickly over the years.

Duncan led him out of the room that Alistair had slept in and through the halls of what could only be described as a palace. The high ceilings continued throughout, sunlight streaming in every window. It was light and airy. The perfect temperature, the perfect aesthetics, the perfect...everything. It was disturbing.

He voiced the same opinion to Duncan and the other man quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’ve grown wary, Alistair.”

“Wary and bitter. My two favorite emotions.” He had meant it as a joke, but it had come out painfully real.

“Surely it hasn’t all been bad since the Blight?”

Alistair sighed, almost missing the usual weary feeling that he used to carry everywhere. Without it, in this land of the dead, he felt uneasy, like he had forgotten something terribly important. “It hasn’t been awful, no. But it certainly hasn’t been easy. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder, if things had been different…” He shook his head. “Alana was determined to be the one to sacrifice herself. I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that there was nothing I could do to change the way it all played out.”

“That’s the attitude you have to keep here. We can’t change the past, Alistair, no matter how much we want to.”

“You’re preaching to the Chantry, Duncan. Trust me, I _know.”_

They continued in silence after that, Duncan pointing out different areas of the castle with commentary. (“Here are the kitchens. Eating isn’t necessary, but some habits die hard.” “And here is the library. Tomes from generations past.”)

Alistair stopped for a moment, looking out a tall window over a set of stables, something niggling at the back of his mind. “Where did this all come from?”

“It was here before we arrived. We imagine the locations...create themselves based off of memories of the people placed there.”

Alistair ran his fingers over the window, leaving smudges. “It feels real. It _looks_ real.”

“For all intents and purposes, it _is_ real.”

Alistair stood in silence, mulling it over, before his forehead suddenly crinkled with confusion. There was the sound of distant...clanging? “Is that a training ground?”

Duncan hesitated. “Things may not be quite as perfect a picture as I’ve been painting. Whatever this place is, it is still a portion of the Fade. Demons still abound, and relatively often at that. Certain groups have made smaller encampments away from the larger settlements and it can be more dangerous. We have lended our swords when necessary.”

“Demons? If we’re in the Fade, how can they die? _We_ can’t die, so why do they try?”

“We can’t die, no. But we get displaced, returning to the location where we originally showed up. It also requires several days of recovery. It is not pleasant. As for the demons, I imagine a similar thing happens.”

Alistair laughed; a deep, spiteful sound. “So what you’re saying, is that even though I’m dead, I still can’t get away from the endless fighting.”

“No one is required to fight. It’s completely voluntary.”

“You know bloody well that I’m going to fight. Stop pretending otherwise.”

Duncan ducked his head, attempting to hide a smile. “I should leave you. Explore. Meet people. Unfortunately your brother is off on a raid and will be gone for a few more days and I believe Wynne is checking up on the Inquisition. We’ve been sending more mages to Thedas since that began.”

Alistair’s stomach lurched. “Wynne is dead?”

“I...am sorry, Alistair. I didn’t realize you didn’t know.”

“I’m honestly not sure whether I should feel sad or happy.”

“She sacrificed herself for another, as did many here. It was an honorable death.”

Alistair snorted. _Honorable death._ How often had people expressed their sympathies about the Hero of Ferelden with those words.

Duncan sighed. “I will leave you now. I realize this is a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, just the tiniest bit.”

Duncan ignored his comment and nodded at him before headed back down the hallway the way they came. The last thing Alistair wanted to do was skulk around the castle, waxing nostalgic prose with other dead people. Perhaps if he had a sword in his hand he could pretend that there was some semblance of normalcy here. Doubtful. But worth a try.

Maker, Duncan was right. He was bitter as hell.

He made his way to the training grounds slowly, turning his head to the sun once he was outside. It was...suddenly all a little overwhelming. It felt like no sunshine he had ever felt before, and as he looked over the horizon, he realized that _nothing_ was quite how it had been. It was as though his whole life he had been looking through a dirty window at the world and now _here it was,_ bright and shining and so real he could scarcely breathe. Everything was brighter, clearer, stronger.

There were worse ways to spend eternity, he supposed.

He continued, drawn by the sounds of swords clashing, the familiar noise calling out to him. He was just rounding the last corner, the sight of other fallen Wardens rushing against each other with raised training weapons, when he paused. There were not only swords here, he knew now. His Templar training had long been forsaken, but, Maker, it was strong as ever in this bright, _bright_ other-world. There was magic in the training yard and he felt it in his very veins, calling out to the lyrium that he hadn’t taken in years. Mages _sparring._ That didn’t happen often, at least not without several Templars in attendance. He had to actively remind himself that there was no risk of being tricked by demons or dying or the Fade. This _was_ the Fade. They _were_ dead.

Of all the weird fucking shit that’s happened to him… He shook his head and marched forward, finally glimpsing the two mages locked in a duel.

One of them was young, maybe fifteen. He couldn’t have possibly even had his Harrowing yet, Alistair realized with a heavy heart. Another casualty of the rebellion? Or had the boy been in the Fade for a while? It was impossible to tell, he supposed. Time was still in this land.

“Come _on,_ you need to be using defensive spells! You’re not an ogre! Purely offensive will get you nowhere,” the other mage’s voice drifted over to Alistair, an encouraging tone that made the boy straighten his back and furrow his brow, his barrier now shimmering in front of him. Several of the Wardens had stopped to watch the two at this point, so no one seemed to be paying Alistair much mind. Which was good, because he wasn’t sure he could handle moving or talking or even breathing.

His mouth was dry and his hands shook as he watched her, spinning her staff viciously. He could tell she was holding back. He’d seen her fight so many times before, he fought _with_ her so many times before, that her styles and tricks were essentially an extension of his own. They had been a well-oiled machine at one point, moving in unison and with precision. In fact, ever since, he had actually enjoyed fighting with other battlemages. But, _Maker,_ it had not been the same.

Her red curls bounced against her shoulders as a grin played on her lips. Shit, he’d forgotten how damn _young_ she had been when she died. What was she? Nineteen? Twenty? He could barely remember now. Those weren’t the things that mattered to him as the years progressed. The memories he had retained consisted of caresses and laughter and battles of wit. Memories of sitting around campfires, sharing stories and food. Her hazel eyes and her soft hair and her whispered pleas. _Those_ were the things he chose to remember.

She was letting the boy have the upper hand and the teenager grinned, thinking he finally had her. “You really beat an Archdemon? I’m _taller_ than you anyhow.”

The other Grey Wardens howled around them with laughter. Alistair had the sneaking suspicion that this was not the first recruit she had embarrassed.

A moment after the boy finished speaking, she jabbed her staff forward, effectively destroying his weak barrier. With a careless flick of her wrist, she sent a bolt of ice crackling up his legs, stopping him in his tracks. The boy’s eyes widened when he realized he was immobilized and he let out the tiniest squeak as she slipped her staff under his legs and sent him stumbling to the ground. She swung her staff around and the blade end pressed against his throat.

“Yield! _Yield!”_ he squealed. The other Wardens’ laughter was deafening as she quickly thawed the boy’s legs out and helped him to his feet.

“Rule number three: never underestimate your opponent.”

She gave him the sweetest smile and the boy gulped and scuttled after his fallen staff, mumbling a quick, “Yes, Mistress Alana,” as he scrambled toward the castle and past Alistair.

“Maker’s balls, I never get tired of that,” a Warden laughed as they slowly dispersed back to their training dummies. She laughed along with them and Alistair felt a shiver tremble up his back. It had been so long. He still wasn’t sure if he could move.

She was leaning against her staff, looking out at the retreating back of the teenager, when she finally saw him standing there, gaping. She froze, her eyes moving over him and he wasn’t sure what she saw. There was a hesitance in her expression though, like she wasn’t sure how he would respond to her. He wanted to yell, wanted to shout, wanted to scream the words that were tearing at his lips; _Please, please, Alana, you are all I’ve ever loved,_ but he couldn’t because his throat was sealed shut and his hands were still shaking and he was staring at her like he was afraid to blink for fear that she would disappear. He wondered briefly if her hesitance was because _she_ had changed? Perhaps she didn’t love him anymore, perhaps it had been too long. Perhaps she only saw a man nearing middle age standing in front of her, the very beginnings of grey starting to show up in his blond hair.

She moved first, leaning her staff against a nearby weapons rack, breaking eye contact with him and making him feel like he would faint if she didn’t look back up _immediately._ But she did, her green-brown eyes roaming over his face as she took careful steps toward him.

He still hadn’t wavered when she stopped in front of him, too close to be strangers, but still so very far away. Had she always been this small and fragile-looking? He remembered a warrior-mage, fierce in battle, but she had always been good at appearing larger than life.

She was silent a few more moments before she spoke. “You look like an idiot with your mouth hanging open like that.”

Alistair laughed. A real laugh with no mirth behind it, a weight lifting from his shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was there. How long had it been? She took another tentative step forward and slowly, _so slowly,_ reached a small hand to his face, tracing new scars and the tiny lines around his eyes.

“I’ve gotten old, I know.”

She smiled and began to take her hand away, but his own lept up and held her there, not wanting to break the contact. He had barely realized he was doing it. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I’ve always kind of been into older guys.”

He laughed harder then, tears unexpectedly prickling at the corners of his eyes, and _fuck it,_ he could cry if he damn well pleased. He had just died and was now looking at his ten-years-gone lover. He probably deserved a good cry.

She wrapped her arms around him then, standing on her toes to bury her face in his neck and they stood like that for a while, clinging to each other. The other Wardens, he realized, had slowly trickled out of the training grounds and left the two of them alone.

“I missed you,” he finally whispered into her hair, and, ah, there was the crack in his voice.

She held him tighter. “I know.”

He pulled back a little and looked at her, his hands not leaving her waist. “Duncan said- Mages- Have you been watching me?”

She laughed, a light tinkling noise, and wrinkled her nose. “That sounds so horribly creepy when you put it that way.” She paused, eyes drifting over the same lines on his face that she had been tracing with her fingertips. “I did, a lot a first. Less as the years went by. But still often enough that Duncan’s yelled at me about the dangers of staying _too_ attached to the living.” She grinned. “I’ve gotten even worse at following orders up here.”

And there is was. His answer, clear as day. She had been waiting for him, patiently watching. His own personal guardian ghost. He brought a still slightly shaking hand up to her cheek and held it there, watching as she closed her eyes and let out the most peaceful sound he’d heard a person make. “I love you,” he said, slow and deliberate.

Her eyes blinked open slowly and her smile widened. “I know.” Her hands moved to the back of his neck and pulled him down until their lips met, a gentle caress at first and then stronger, more assured. Her touch was like fire and ice all at once and he could barely think straight. Could barely function beyond just _this._ Her mouth and her hands and a light breeze playing through his hair. He could get used to an eternity of this. He shivered as she deepened the kiss and pressed her body against his, like she was just as desperate as he was.

If this was a trick of the Fade, it was not a bad one.


End file.
